


Worse Games to Play

by writeyourheart



Category: The Fosters (TV 2013)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Jonnor - Freeform, M/M, the fosters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4468415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeyourheart/pseuds/writeyourheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the age of fifteen, Jude Jacob hunts alongside his sister Callie to help them survive and be able to trade the meat of animals, herbs and fruits for medicine for their dying mother. Not only trying to survive his life down in the Seam in District 12, but to survive the annual Reapings for The Hunger Games. And with this year being the 100th annual Hunger Games, Jude awaits the twist for the Quarter Quell, knowing it will be the most lethal games of all. But Jude has no idea what lies ahead of him and Connor Stevens, the baker’s son and a familiar acquaintance who once might've saved his life long ago, as they must go through the games together. (Jonnor meets The Hunger Games)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worse Games to Play

Dust overwhelmed the sky in the distance, almost hiding the grey clouds and floating around the thick dark gas which escaped fluently from the old, rusty pipes of the industries and mines. This wasn’t unusual, this wasn’t rare. But that didn’t make it any easier to deal with, to breathe in or to look at. Displeasure would never be settling.

I turn my head back from behind, looking down to my hands. I fiddle with the metal head of my arrow, lightly piercing it onto my left index finger. It caused no pain yet made the middle part of my finger tip white and slightly hollow. I do it again. And again. Shifting fingers and dreading the habit I’ve become so oblivious to. I try to stop but there’s no success. I discover myself too fascinated in how the pinkish flesh of my fingers could change color at the contact of something sharp. It was so odd. So amazing. Well, to me that is.

“You’re so easily distracted. Fascinated too easily.” I hear Callie in my head, the first time she took me out hunting with her, her soft voice ushering out heavy words. “Not exactly the traits of hunter. But I’m sure you’ll do fine none the less.” She was right. I certainly wasn’t as good as her; no one was. But I wasn’t quite far behind. 

I push away my arrow and place it behind my back, letting it slide effortlessly into my brown leather quiver. It was worn out and stained, but it worked just as fine. Looks didn’t matter. Not in District 12. The Capitol was a whole different story. Looks were the only things that mattered along with power and food and entertainment. Fools. Disgusting fools. Entertained within the deaths of children and teenagers who had their whole life ahead of them. 

But nothing was more disgusting than us. The citizens from all the Districts. Because we weren’t stopping them. We certainly were more than them by more than just a dozen. But we were scared. Cowards. But I didn’t blame us. Bravery and courage were dangerous. Peacekeepers kept rebellious thoughts away from our heads by controlling devilishly. They treated us disgustingly, like we were worthless. And to them, we are. To anyone we are. Especially District 12.

We were the poorest of all the Districts. Even the mayor’s wealth was a joke compared to a casual citizen from Districts like 1, 2 or 4. And unfortunately, there was nothing we could do about it. 

I look up from the damp, lumpy rock I’m sitting on, the view which leads deeper into the forest is nothing but beautiful shades of greens and the sky a pale blue dotted with white clouds. When I look behind me, the sky which leads back to 12 is dusty and rotten looking. Even the sky above 12 looks sad. 

I sigh, letting my gaze drop from the sky to the ground beneath me. Laying by the dandelions and the bright green grass is my game bag, as worn out as my quiver. Yet it’s worth much more. Inside lie three dead squirrels, two rabbits and four birds. Some will be kept for Callie, Mom and I, the rest will be traded for medicine, bread, cotton and thread for other necessities. 

I rise from the rock, grasping onto my game bag and swinging it slightly, humming a familiar lullaby which I can already hear the Mockingjay’s begin to recite. I hurry through the path I know far too well to ever forget, finding myself slow down as I reach the fence. I press my ear by it carefully and hear nothing. The fence is told to be electrocuted, simply to keep us away. But it never is. To actually electrocute the fence would be such a waste. The Peacekeeper’s don’t keep me from everything.   
I slide through the fence, immediately feeling an odd twist in my chest as I’m officially back in 12. How could we have possibly reached a point where we let a fence determine our feelings of safety? Determine our feelings of freedom. 

I jog away from the fence, always keeping an eye out for a Peacekeeper, but there never is one. I then quickly slide between the gaps of two houses in the Seam, where the poorest of the poor live. Where I live. I turn a sharp right, rearranging the strap of my quiver around my shoulder as I approach home.   
It’s small, and the wood which makes the house, which I suppose was once white, is now filled with ash and dust from the mines, making it look greyish. The wood is also broken, simply just sliding my fingers across it could give me splinters. But it feels like home, it smells like home. It is home.  
I open the door slowly, cautious to not wake up Mom; she needs all the rest she can get. Callie is certainly awake. Seven in the morning is late to her. 

The figure with a chipped glass within her grip sitting at the wooden table proves me right. I walk over to her, laying the game bag onto the table and handing her a warm smile I can only manage to make around my family. She recites it; her smile occurring even less than mine does. There are heavy bags under her eyes, and her hair is tied up messier than she usually has it. She’s been more tired than usual. And I don’t blame her. Mom’s not getting any better, and Callie barely gets any rest due to the constant need to care for her. I try too, but if there’s something I’m not, it’s a healer. 

“How’s Mom?” I ask quietly, taking a seat next to Callie, emptying the game bag slowly to not wake up my mother who sleeps soundlessly in the small room, simply just a thin wall separating us. 

“Better,” Callie whispers, her voice is dry and I have to resist the urge to raise the glass of water to her lips myself. Luckily, she notices the croaking in her voice as well and I watch as I see her throat rise and then soften as she gulps down the liquid. She sets the glass down carefully, pushing the glass to me. I take it instinctively, gulping down the remainder of the water myself. “But Stef is coming in a couple of hours, before they announce the twist for the Quarter Quell.” 

My eyes raise at the mention of one of the Adams-Foster women. Stef; she was the healer of the District. She seemed so powerful, filled with strength and a fiery passion. Especially to her family. Had she come from the Capitol, she could’ve easily been chosen to be a Peacekeeper. But she was too loving for that; too kind. Although she could be intimidating on the edges, she really was very loving. Like Callie. 

“I guess I’ll save something for her,” I begin. I begin to look through the animals cramped together on the small table, questioning what to give her. “Maybe if we give her a bird and rabbit it’ll be enough and we can still have enough to trade for bread and cook for ourselves?” Callie begins shaking her head.

“No, Jude.” Callie says my name so delicately I begin to feel my nerves rise due to the hint of sadness hidden in the softness of her voice as well. “She said she doesn’t want anything.” I furrow my eyebrows together in confusion. How could she want nothing?

“What do you mean she doesn’t want anything?” I ask, bewildered. In 12, everything is done for a trade, nothing is simply given. No one can afford that.

“She said she used to know Mom a while back and that it’s the least she could do,” Callie clarified, rubbing the back of her neck with her hand. “Besides, it’s not like she really needs anything anymore. Her son can manage for the whole family just fine now.” 

Of course. Brandon. He was from the Seam too, he’d play games with Callie all the time. I slouch into the uncomfortable chair, feeling it wobble on the stained floors of the heated house. He had won The Hunger Games at the age of 17, only two years older than I am now. It’s been two years since his victory, and he now lives with his entire family in Victor’s Village, food and money practically growing out of his ass. 

But it’s still not worth it. 12 is small, things spread quickly around here. We know about his drinking problem, the one his father must’ve helped him develop after the games. A refuge against the nightmares and memories of the cruel death in the games. 

I remember Brandon’s games. His arena was a scorch. Practically a desert with hidden caverns revealing scary monstrous mutts. Rats the size of desks and snakes which would bite your head off. 

I remember the nightmares it caused for me. Even hidden underneath Callie’s arm, my head buried into her shoulder most of the time, I still got them. And Brandon had to live through that. I could never imagine his nightmares, his fears and pains. 

And I remember Lou, the girl from the Seam who fought along his side the whole time. The two guarding one another’s backs almost constantly. And I certainly remember when the boy from District 1 slashed her throat and Brandon bashed his head against a rock. And then the speakers initiating Brandon had won. He was a Victor. The second victor we’ve ever had here in 12. The only one still alive now. 

And Stef was his mother. One of them, really. Her wife, Lena, was just as much of a mother to him as she was. Almost more of a parent than his father. They have two other children. They were merchants; their mother owned the drug store. Eventually, she enjoyed the medicine too much herself, letting the non-prescribed pills overwhelm her body and kill her on a cold day in January. Stef and Lena then took in Jesus and Mariana, raising them as their own. Two more mouths to feed, yet they didn’t seem to care. They loved them, and it worked out. 

“I guess I’ll go trade some stuff now,” I announced suddenly, escaping from my deep thoughts and rising from my chair. “Anything we need in particular?” Callie rubbed the bridge of her nose, one of her habits.   
“Two loaves of bread from the bakery and some pills for now,” she yawned, still rubbing the bridge of her nose. I nod quickly and pat her left hand which remained on the table. She flips it over and squeezes my hand. 

“Thanks.” The words had more depth than they were supposed to, and my warm smile grew back onto my face. Callie. The one who raised me. The one who taught me to hunt, to cook, to sew. To survive. I owe so much to her, and envy her so much. Even more so now. She survived all of her Reapings. And that gave me hope that I would survive mine too.   
“Be back home in time for the announcement tonight tough,” she called out and I nodded once more. I watch as Callie raised, going to wake Mom before Stef arrives, as I walk out the door once more.

Tonight they’d announce this Quarter Quell’s twist. The Quarter Quell. Every 25 years, they’d add a special twist on the games. The First Quarter Quell, people of the Districts had to vote for who they wanted to go up. The Second was twice the amount of people in the arena. And the Third Quarter Quell was all Victor’s back in the arena.   
And this year, is the 100th anniversary of the games, there’s no doubt in my mind that they’ll do something insane. And I could do was hope that I wouldn’t be chosen.

Town is busy today. People walking around all over, some with coins in their hands, some with leather and deer skins, willing to trade. After the Reapings, most families choose to eat well, the ones whose children were not chosen to be murdered. But the others, the two families who must lose a son and a daughter, a sister and a brother, a cousin, they will mourn the upcoming deaths of their loved ones. No one ever makes it out alive in 12. We’re weak compared to other Districts. Brandon Foster got lucky.

I pass the Slagheap; the place where teenagers would go to hook up. Some would take one another there, or just find a random person to make out with right in that moment. It looked sort of like a barn, alcohol bottles laying around the place like junk.   
Sometimes I consider myself lucky that I’ve never been there before. And other times I feel bad about the fact that I haven’t. I’ve never even kissed anyone before, let alone really paid attention to anyone either.

I knew I didn’t like girl though. That was something I was certain of. I remember Taylor Dresser, ironically, the tailor’s daughter. The daughter of a merchant. She was one of the luckier people in 12. Lived in town, always food on her table, always a good pair of clothes and warm bedsheets. Never has she had to hunt for her food, or work extra hard to get something. Just like all merchant kids. 

In the seventh grade, Taylor would occasionally speak with me. A simple hello, a smile, even small talk. It was unusual for me. I didn’t have any friends, and kept to myself. Even the other Seam kids knew who I was. Jude Jacob: the loner boy who had no friends and chose his own company over anyone else’s. And I didn’t mind it. I still don’t. 

One day, at the Winter Festival, which my mother insisted on bringing Callie and me to, she decided to come sit right next to me on the bench. She began talking quickly, her words at an unintelligible speed. And I simply just nodded. Lots of people stared. Merchant and Seam kids weren’t friends. We didn’t even converse. The only type of contact between us is trading for things or gossip. Making fun of one another is key in the whole relationship between us as well. 

She then asked if I wanted to go for a walk with her. And I agreed, knowing it’d be rude to say no. Once we were far from all the action, she tried to kiss me full on the mouth. I cowered away, my heart beating so quickly in my chest I thought it might explode. She then hung her head down, and looked to her feet, muttering an apology. 

“It’s not your fault,” I told her softly, my hands clasped together tightly, damp and clammy. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you; I promise.” 

“Then what does it have to do with?” Taylor asked, her eyebrows furrowing together they almost looked like one. “Do you like another girl?” I shook my head fiercely, raising my eyebrows for emphasis.

“No,” I admitted. “No girls.” Her mouth opened, yet didn’t say any other words as she came to the realization. It was the first time I had said it aloud. It was, and still is, the closest thing I got to coming out. And she understood.

She never spoke about it again. Yet still spoke to me, respectfully. And I appreciate her for that. She was the closest thing I ever got to a friend. And still is. We still speak sometimes, the same small talk. And I still appreciate her for keeping what I said a secret. 

Being gay was not frowned upon like it used to be though. The Capitol was certainly very open about it, and even enjoyed it. Yet District 12 was different, some people still had a hard time accepting that. Especially Merchants. They needed heirs to keep their businesses running, and they didn’t like the idea of a donner. Yet another reason why I dislike the merchants. 

I finally find myself in front of a familiar building. The brick is red, and the door is wooden with a small square window at the top. A couple windows show off the delicious treats inside of it, and children always press their hands against it, admiring them. The words ‘Stevens Family Bakery’ are plastered above the door in yellow cursive lettering.   
I walk in, a bell ringing and a familiar face escaping from the back of the kitchen. 

Connor Stevens.

His tan face turns a brighter shade as he sees me, his eyes wide as he holds three loaves of bread within his grip. I walk closer to the counter and watch as he turns his back to me and sets the loaves onto the shelves and into the basket entitles ‘loaves of bread’.   
When he turns back around his face is still flushed and his eyes ghost against mine before they fall onto the counter separating us. “Here to trade. Two loaves of bread, right?” He asks swiftly. It’s always been this way between Connor and I. 

When I was 11, my dad died in a mine explosion, bursting him into tiny bits and leaving Callie, Mom and me with nothing but a couple coins which lasted us for a few weeks from the Capitol and a grieving house. My mother was too depressed to do or say anything. She simply just laid in bed staring at the ceiling and weeping.   
Callie tried to get her to do things for us. She yelled at her, cried and even thrashed around a couple things. But she did nothing but lay in bed, continuing to weep and leaving Callie to fend for both herself and me. 

One night, Callie went out hunting, and came back with a twisted ankle from falling over a branch. She tried to do something with the little herbs she had the chance to pick, but there was nothing we could do, and she could barely walk.   
She fell asleep that night, starving. The third night we’ve gone without eating just a couple herbs. I decided to do something. I walked to town, searching in the garbage of merchants for food; for something, yet found nothing. 

Tired, and hungry, and rain starting to pour over me I sat underneath the tree by the bakery, thinking that this was it, I was just going to die. But then I remember catching a glimpse of a soft face from the upstairs window of the bakery. Fifteen minutes later, Connor Stevens was dragged out of his home by the collar of his shirt, his mother having a vice grip on him, and in his hands two loaves of bread. I watched as she slapped her rolling pin against the side of his face, and I could swear I didn’t even see him flinch.  
“Feed it to the pigs you dumb boy!” She exclaimed, her words like venom. “No one decent will buy burnt bread!” I watched as she stormed back inside, Connor watching her every move. 

And instead of throwing the loaves out to the pigs, he turned his head back for one last glance, to be certain his mother wasn’t watching, and threw them in my direction instead. Our eyes meeting for half a second, even in the small distance I could catch the piercing hazel of his eyes. He then turned back around and walked back into the house.   
I quickly crawled to reach the loaves of damp bread, shoving them underneath by soaking shirt and running back home. They might’ve been wet, and slightly burnt, but Callie scraped off most of it and we ate like Victor’s that night, saving a few slices for our mother. That gave me the realization to ask Callie to teach me to hunt, so that we could survive.

The next day at school, I tried my best to get the courage to go up to Connor, and thank him for saving my life. But every time our eyes met, he would look down, or up, or away. Until the end of the day I caught sight of him, his eyes not leaving mine this time.  
I handed him a half smile, which he returned with a slight nod as well, and I walked away. That was it. The only time I ever had communication with him other than when his father wasn’t around and I had to trade with Connor instead. 

Today was one of those days. 

“Yeah, I’ll have two loaves of bread, please,” I confirm. Connor knows what how I trade with his father. He must hear us from the back of the kitchen. He nods slowly, reaching out the grab the loaves he just had in his hands before, most likely the warmest. 

He places them on the counter and I take out two squirrels. The regular trade. Connor grabs onto the squirrels and places them on the counter behind him.   
Suddenly, I see the familiar form of Adam Stevens walk in the room. He casts me a smile and pats his sons shoulder. “Hello, Jude,” he beamed. “How’s your mother?” Connor eyes dart from his father to me, awaiting my answer. It’s now my turn to look away. 

“Like usual,” I answer him. I wonder if my voice is as tired as Callie’s. “I was just going out to trade for some medicine. And Stef Adams-Foster is going to check on her to let us know any more details.” Connor’s eyes seem to soften more at my words. He doesn’t know what it’s like to lose a parent. But he doesn’t know what it’s like to have a loving mother. It’s no secret that Mrs. Stevens tried quite hard to have a child with Mr. Stevens, and after three miscarriages, Connor arrived. And it was no secret she desired a girl much more than a typical Stevens boy. 

Sure, Mom was distant for a few months after Dad’s death before she regained herself, but she or Dad never laid a hand on us. It was always love.   
“Well I’m sorry to hear that, Jude,” Mr. Stevens nodded, his lips stuck together in a thin line. He then reaches over the desk to hand my four sugar cookies. “Here. No cost. It’s for the Quarter Quell announcement tonight.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” I insist, looking into my bag once more. “I can trade a bird for them.” 

“No,” Connor broke in before Mr. Stevens could answer. “You don’t have to do that.” My eyes land on Connor’s again, that awkward depth between us always remaining.

“Like Connor said,” Mr. Stevens continues, making my shift my gaze from his son to him. “You don’t have to do that. It’s a treat.” I nod and thank them once more, looking at Connor again before walking out of the door.

He did it again. Gave me something when he didn’t need to. At this rate, I’m one day going to owe Connor Stevens my life.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! So this AU was obviously based of the "The Hunger Games" trilogy by Suzanne Collins, my favorite book trilogy. This idea of Jude and Connor going through The Hunger Games together has been floating in my mind lately, and I decided to write it. As you can see nothing's really been stirred up yet, but this was really just an introduction to the characters and what had happened to them in the past.   
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
